


bleeding heart

by bacondoughnut



Series: my father my father and me [2]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bad Parent Martin Whitly, Canon-Typical Violence, Companion Piece, Disturbing Themes, Gaslighting, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Malcolm Bright Gets a Hug, Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug, Manipulation, Protective Gil Arroyo, Rescue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:02:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27335371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bacondoughnut/pseuds/bacondoughnut
Summary: Desperate to save Gil's life, Malcolm agreed to leave New York with his father, newly escaped from prison. Will Gil be able to find them before everything goes horribly wrong?A follow up to 'filius meus'
Series: my father my father and me [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2003005
Comments: 19
Kudos: 56





	bleeding heart

"Well you're awfully quiet this evening."

Malcolm tenses.

He should be prepared for the scrutiny by now. For the most part he has been, but it turns out it's kind of draining trying to keep up with your serial killer father's mind games twenty-four seven. He slipped up. Let his mind wander.

It's not an outright question so he delays an answer. Funny enough, if it were a question, his not answering would still be confirmation.

"Is there something bothering you?" Martin prompts. "You can talk to me, you know."

He actually sounds like he believes that.

"It's nothing," Malcolm says.

"Don't tell me this is about Lieutenant Arroyo again." He doesn't deny it, certainly not fast enough, and his father sighs disapprovingly. Shakes his head and says, "I just don't understand why you insist on upsetting yourself with this. I thought you _wanted_ to be here."

"I do," he says. He can't be sure he's the only one in the room who knows it's a lie. A lie, he's found, is more easily accepted when paired with a truth. And right now he needs Martin to believe his lies so, although he'd rather not admit it out loud, he says, "But I don't even know if he's alive."

"You're worried about him," Martin says, with a level of understanding that's almost cruel. As if Martin Whitly could ever actually understand. "That's sweet."

"Don't patronize me."

He wishes he could say it's a calculated move, snapping at Martin. In truth it's nothing more than a genuine frustration.

He's been trying to follow Gil's advice, not let his father get into his head. Trying being the operative word here. He doesn't even know how long it's been since that day in the barn, he lost track of the days. He does know he hasn't been alone with his father this long in twenty years, and he's supposed to be smarter than he was at age ten, but he's having some doubts.

"Sweet," Martin presses on as if uninterrupted. "But unnecessary."

If he had more self control he wouldn't ask. Because Malcolm knows. He knows what his father's trying to do.

"What do you mean?"

"Hm?" Martin says, playing at casual. Like he didn't only say it knowing Malcolm would have to ask. "Oh, never mind. It's nothing. I wouldn't want to upset you."

No, of course, far be it from Martin to upset him.

Malcolm winces internally. At the surface, he knows better than to let this conversation go any further. Everything his father says is a chess move, and maybe Malcolm can't see the game but that doesn't mean he doesn't know when he's being played. But he can't suppress his curiosity enough to keep from saying anyway, "Tell me."

"Well, Gil's fine," Martin says plainly. The confusion must show on Malcolm's face, because he continues, "Sure it was something of an...invasive surgery, but if he called for help when you told him to there's no reason he shouldn't have made it to the hospital. And, given the average recovery time for his injuries, he ought to be back at work by now even."

That might be reassuring if it weren't simultaneously so unsettling. If only because of the timeline it implies. Martin broke Gil's leg, Malcolm watched him do it. That's six to eight weeks it would take to recover. That's six to eight weeks Malcolm's been here.

He knows he lost track somewhere around week two, but six weeks seems too long. He can't have been here that long.

Not that he would really have any means of knowing. He eats and sleeps when Martin tells him to. He only knows it's evening right now because Martin said so. He hasn't seen the outside of this house since they arrived, every time he asks his father gives him the lecture about trust again.

The mind games are very different when Martin doesn't have anyone else's rules to play by; when he doesn't risk losing phone privileges or Malcolm's visits if he says the wrong thing or pushes too many buttons. He's still playing games, but now they're on his own terms. It's a whole other level of exhausting to keep up with.

But his father's medical knowledge, if nothing else, he knows he can trust. Which means that Gil's fine. Gil's alive. That's something. That's more than something, that's everything.

Malcolm looks up from the carpet stain he's been staring at. Asks, "Why would that upset me?"

"Why would-" Martin starts to repeat, looking away almost guiltily. He passes a hand over the back of his neck, turning back and saying, "I hate to be the one to break this to you, my boy. Lieutenant Arroyo's not looking for you."

He's lying. It's what he does.

"Why do you think he's not looking?"

"Malcolm, you actively helped me in hurting him. Volunteered to leave with me. You betrayed him," he says pointedly. "Now, I care enough about you to forgive you for trying to replace me with him--a boy needs a father, I wasn't always there for you. It's unfortunate but defensible. Lieutenant Arroyo, on the other hand, might not be so understanding."

He can't be having this argument right now. He's supposed to be convincing his father he wants to be here. That's the only way he gains enough trust to get out of here.

"He'd be dead if I hadn't done that," Malcolm argues before he can stop himself.

Martin gives a doubtful hum. "Not necessarily."

"You were killing him."

"I put the knife down as soon as you arrived, son," he says with a frown. "Lieutenant Arroyo wasn't in any real danger."

"That's not--No you didn't."

"Of course I did. You had a gun, Malcolm," Martin scoffs. "And, let's face it, you don't have the steadiest aim. I thought it best not to risk it."

He's almost positive that's not how it happened. Almost. Except that Martin sounds like he believes it. And Malcolm knows better than to take the word of a pathological liar, but he doesn't see a single tell that Martin is lying. It's infuriating and confusing and that day is already so much further away than he thought it had been, if it's true it's been six to eight weeks, and it's got him wondering whether he really knows what happened.

"You didn't only have a knife," Malcolm picks the out the firmest flaw in Martin's story he can get a hold on. He shuts his eyes, hoping to get the picture in his head. Says, "There was a pair of pliers."

Martin laughs. "That's a horribly inefficient tool to remove an internal organ with, my boy."

Yeah, he knows. That's what Martin's had him studying in his free time. Anatomy lessons. Like Martin used to go over when Malcolm was a kid, wandering into his father's study to talk science over hot cocoa. Except it's not simple childlike curiosity anymore. Martin keeps making offhanded comments about a test, and he'll admit he's terrified of what that implies.

But that's how he knows for a fact, "You didn't want to be efficient, you wanted it to hurt."

"Oh, it hurts no matter what you use," Martin says easily. He sits down at the table with Malcolm, looking him right in the eyes and saying earnestly, "I couldn't have killed Gil then if I wanted to, and believe me, I wanted to."

Malcolm shakes his head. "You didn't put the knife down. You cut the side of his neck. I remember."

"You don't exactly have the most reliable track record with remembering things though, do you?"

Damn him, but that part's actually true.

He clenches a hand at his side, using the way his fingernails dig into his palm as an anchor. Says, "I'm a psychological profiler, Dr. Whitly, do you really think I won't recognize gaslighting when I hear it?"

Martin scoffs dismissively. "Always so suspicious. Where do you get that from?"

"You want me to answer that chronologically or alphabetically?" A hint of amusement plays across Martin's expression in reaction to his joke, and Malcolm shifts uncomfortably. Arguing or agreeing, he never seems to have control of the conversation. He says pointedly, "You killed twenty three people."

"Twenty five, if you wanna get technical."

Right. He killed two guards in his escape. Malcolm doesn't know it slipped his mind, he watched the security footage with Dani and JT. And he doesn't know why Martin makes the correction.

It doesn't make sense to specify that he's killed more people, not when he's trying to get Malcolm on his side. It could be pride getting in the way of strategy, but it doesn't get to be that simple. Does it?

Martin shrugs in a charade of innocence. Says, "I'm trying to be honest with you, Malcolm."

There it is. It's part of his game. Everything he says is part of his god damn game.

"Thanks," Malcolm says under his breath.

He averts his gaze. Focuses on an old coffee ring on the table.

He doesn't know whose table this is. Whose house. He's fairly certain that they're still in the state of New York, but that's about all he knows. They couldn't get wherever they were going by airport, the security would've been too thorough for a wanted serial killer to slip through, even one as intelligent as the Surgeon.

They can't be that far from New York anyway. He might have Malcolm, but the rest of their family is still in the city. Ainsley. Jessica. And Martin's far from devoted, but he's possessive. He won't want to go that far from where they are.

"See, I knew I shouldn't have said anything," Martin says, a very faint, very false guilt coloring his voice. "You're upset."

"Why would I be upset? You said it yourself, I volunteered to be here."

He's not once been completely sure how far he's gotten in convincing his father of that lie. It doesn't matter. Whether Malcolm's telling the truth or not, Martin gets what he wants. There's no reason for him not to play along.

"Your team knows it, too," Martin says, matter of fact. He hums, "But they always suspected we were more alike than you let on, didn't they?"

That strikes a chord.

Not because Malcolm believes it to be true, but because he's always been terrified it's true anyway, no matter how unbelievable it slowly became.

Before he can decide whether to deny it or not, Martin's continuing, "Then you volunteer to leave with me, after emphasizing it's because you know it's going to hurt Lieutenant Arroyo. That's not a good look, is it?"

He's lying, Malcolm reminds himself. Martin Whitly lies. That's more or less taken over in place of the daily affirmations. His father is a liar. His father is lying.

"So much for not wanting to upset me," Malcolm quips with a fake chuckle.

"My boy," Martin says, falsely reassuring. "They were never going to accept you, how could they? They couldn't understand you. I'm the only one who's going to really, truly care about you. Because I'm the only one who can understand you. Because we're the _same."_

Malcolm shudders but forces a smile. A small, likely unconvincing nod.

"Yeah," he says, because it's what he's supposed to say. "I think I see that now."

And Martin's been wanting that to be true for too long to look for deceit, he thinks.

He offers Malcolm what's supposed to be a comforting grin, getting back up out of his seat. Saying, "I'm certainly relieved to hear it. Now, I do have to head out for a quick minute. Are you alright on your own for a bit?"

He knows better than to get excited. It's not the opportunity it might seem.

"Where are you going?"

He doesn't know what Martin can answer that Malcolm would totally believe anyway.

"It's a surprise," Martin says, and Malcolm's skin crawls. "Let's get you upstairs."

There it is.

He pushes his chair out from the table but doesn't get up. Eyeing the doorway before looking back to his father. Asking without any real hope of success, "Is that really necessary?"

Martin gives a weary sigh. He's already starting for the stairwell, just expecting Malcolm to follow. What's worse is that Malcolm does.

"We've been over this, Malcolm," Martin says. "Our trust is fractured. It's going to take time to repair."

"Yeah, I got it."

His father glances over his shoulder to give him a disapproving look. They start up the stairs and he says deliberately, "I understand you're frustrated, but if I recall correctly, it wasn't me who called the police on you."

And they've made it to the top of the steps before Malcolm comes up with the right response.

"I was a kid," he says, stopping in the doorway. "I didn't understand then."

"But you do now?"

"I'm trying to." It's less of a direct lie, he's hoping that makes it more believable.

Maybe it works, maybe it doesn't. Whether or not Martin buys the charade, he starts down the hallway again, and Malcolm has no choice but to follow. He's biding his time, he reminds himself.

Martin flips the light switch on.

It's a routine by now, one they go through every time Martin leaves the house. On autopilot, Malcolm makes his way over to the bed that's been his for the past few weeks. Sits down. He gives it one more shot at arguing, "Why don't you take me with you?"

"That sort of ruins the nature of a surprise," Martin points out. Then, "Besides, I don't think we're there yet."

That's nice and foreboding.

He approaches the bedside and gives a scolding look when Malcolm doesn't move like he's supposed to. He feels a little like a petulant kid not wanting to go to sleep, sitting there glaring at his father like that. Eventually it's Martin that wins out. Malcolm gives up.

If he weren't so exhausted, he might be alarmed at how often he seems to be doing that these days. Giving up. Gil would be disappointed.

Will be. Gil _will be_ disappointed, when they see each other again. And they will. On that point he's not giving up.

But with a resigned sigh, he offers out his wrists.

"There's a good lad," his father says, irritably smug.

Malcolm lets his arms go limp, doing nothing to help or to stop it as his wrists are maneuvered up above his head. It's not all that unusual for him anyway. He slept in restraints every night before, why should this be any different? Although the zip-ties Martin gets are a lot less comfortable.

He ties the gag around Malcolm's mouth with a quip about not disturbing the neighbors, and how Malcolm has a tendency to 'talk' in his sleep. He's far too careful about it, almost loving, if Martin were capable of such an emotion. Malcolm half wishes he'd stop being so gentle. It's disturbing and confusing and every time he winces away from Martin's hands it sets his masquerade of trust back a step.

Martin ruffles his hair affectionately before stepping away, and Malcolm cringes.

"Be back soon, my boy. Don't wait up."

He's too cheerful as he retreats back out of the room. Malcolm realizes too late what that means. That's the game, Martin distracted him long enough to get him up here before Malcolm could figure out what he was planning. He has no way of knowing who it'll be, but this is it, the Surgeon's kill count is about to make twenty six.

And there's nothing he can do to stop it.

He jerks as violently as he can against the restraints just as the door clicks shut. His father's footsteps can be heard down the hallway, accompanied by a wistful humming.

Malcolm thrashes and thrashes and the zip-ties won't give, all he manages to do is slam his head back into the headboard. His wrists feel raw and his father's about to kill someone and it's his fault because he should've known. He's been here for six weeks, maybe longer, and he should've gotten out by now. Found a way to get out and bring his father back into custody. He didn't.

His chest feels too heavy. He needs to think, to get out of here, and he can't. All he can do is struggle. And hyperventilate apparently.

He knows enough to recognize a panic attack by now. Or maybe it's a heart attack.

That would be ironic. Dying of a heart attack in the Surgeon's custody.

He tilts his head back, trying to get a look at the zip-ties. He doesn't know what he hopes to see that will help him break free, he just needs to see it. See what's keeping him here. It doesn't help.

He's struck with the impression that the room is somehow getting smaller. The dark closing in. His lungs feel heavy. His heartbeat is too quick. None of which is going to save whoever Martin Whitly is on his way to kill. None of which is going to get Malcolm out of here.

He thinks he blacks out.

By the time he wakes up he can hear the door swinging open and shut downstairs. Martin's home.

Malcolm turns instinctively to the door a moment before Martin's footsteps appear in the hall. There's one quick knock, and then Martin's back. Cutting the zip-ties away with ease. Eyeing Malcolm suspiciously when he notices the bruising around them, but he doesn't say anything. Not outright. He just asks as he pulls the gag away, "Was that yelling I heard on my way out? You can't've been sleeping already, can you?"

"I saw a spider," Malcolm says unconvincingly. Martin's eye twitches infinitesimally. He shrugs, rubbing a hand over his wrist, "I hate spiders."

"I don't know that you ever told me that."

"Never came up."

It's not his best lie, but Martin doesn't seem to care to call him on it. He just steps away from the bed once more, indicating the doorway with a small nod. When Malcolm frowns he says, "Surprise is downstairs."

"Right."

Martin looks back at him, and he has no choice but to get up. He doesn't want to. He doesn't want to know what's downstairs.

He passes through the door with a shudder and starts down the steps. He knows what he's going to see when he makes it to the kitchen and it still takes him by surprise. He stumbles backwards, back colliding with Martin's chest, and Martin freezes him there before he can get any further with a hand on his shoulder. He sounds almost giddy when he declares, "Surprise!"

"What is this?"

He can see what it is, but he needs to know _what_.

Martin has a woman, unfamiliar, unconscious, tied down to the kitchen table. She doesn't have any visible injuries, but she wouldn't. He would've poisoned her. There's been too much press about him lately, she wouldn't have taken a drink from him. A needle injection then. He snuck up on her, she never saw him coming.

"It's for you," Martin says, giving him a small shove further into the room. "I thought it best we introduce you to this work slowly. You struggle with a bleeding heart."

Malcolm's going to be sick.

It all makes sense now. The anatomy lessons. The test. _We're the same._

Martin's still talking. He forces himself to focus on the words. Words are important, especially now. It takes more effort than it should. He can't see anything past the stranger on the kitchen table.

She's already dead. He can't save her.

"First we'll do a little practice run," Martin goes on, nudging Malcolm still nearer to the table. "Then we can work your way up to the real deal. Well go on, take it. Don't be shy."

He blinks.

Martin's offering him a blade. A scalpel.

Malcolm couldn't move to take it even if he wanted to. He's frozen. A deer in the headlights. A fitting analogy, if not for the fact that he's not the one that's been made into a prey animal. Not yet anyway. Martin, always the predator, rolls his eyes and takes Malcolm's hand in his own, curling his fingers around the scalpel.

"Here I thought you'd be grateful," Martin tuts disapprovingly.

"Grateful?" Malcolm echoes, half fury and half sick.

"You've been studying so much lately, I thought it might be nice for us to have a more hands on lesson," his father says. "Now, we'll start you off small. A simple incision right over here. Think you can handle it?"

He guides their hands over to a spot just below the woman's ribs, not loosening his hold on Malcolm's hand but not gripping it either. It's meant to give an illusion of choice, he thinks.

Malcolm glares and pulls his hand away. Starts to, anyway. His father's grip tightens into a vice.

There it is. The monster beneath the surface.

"I won't," Malcolm says.

"She's already dead, son. What are you proving?" Martin says with a condescending huff. Malcolm doesn't back down, as much as the fear instinct in his sympathetic nervous system is telling him to. It only pisses Martin off, it's clear in his eyes. The grip around his wrist turns to painful as Martin snarls, "I am your father, dammit! Do as I tell you and make the incision."

He flinches. Jerks his hand free of Martin's grip and takes a deep, steadying breath.

He's not seeing clearly. He needs a second to think.

He can't do this. He can't do this. Maybe he has to do this. If he does this, he earns Martin's trust. This is the test, it's going to prove something to Martin, and then he'll feel assured Malcolm wants to be here. He'll leave Malcolm home alone without restraining him, just once. Then Malcolm can contact the authorities, he can get out. He can stop the next person dying.

But he can't do this.

She's dead. He can stop it happening again.

"Malcolm," his father says, a thin warning.

"Alright," Malcolm snaps. He scrapes his empty hand down his face, tries to focus. All the rage is gone by the time he repeats with a defeated sigh, "Alright."

Martin's eyes practically glint.

Malcolm's stalls another instant, then raises his hand to where he's told. The tremor returns with a vengeance, and when it does, Martin's hand covers his own once more to still it.

"Just like that," Martin coos in his ear, guiding the scalpel in a line across the woman's abdomen.

Malcolm gags. His father won't let him pull his hand back, he just keeps pressing until the blood dribbles out. From the table emits a low, barely audible whimper.

Relief and horror flood Malcolm's mind all at once. She's alive.

The instant he realizes it he tries to pull his hand back, but Martin won't let him. He drives the scalpel in deeper, in a precise line below her ribs, and oh god he's going to kill her. Martin's going to make him kill her.

With a shout he finally jerks his hand loose, shoving his father away from him. Martin stumbles back a few steps, looking mildly indignant more than anything else. Sighing like he's disappointed, like Malcolm's letting him down. In his mind he is.

All Malcolm can come up with to say is the obvious. "You lied."

The accusation isn't going to burn. Martin doesn't feel bad for lying, and Malcolm doesn't sound half as angry as he feels. He's too busy trying not to panic.

"Well of course I did," Martin says with a light chuckle, straightening the front of his shirt. "You wouldn't have done it otherwise."

"No shit!"

"Language."

Behind them the woman whines. The shouting combined with the pain he can only imagine he's caused pushing past the haze created by whatever drug Martin gave her.

Malcolm turns away, scanning the kitchen for something to stop the bleeding with. To fix what he's done. He spots a clean rag by the sink and starts for it, but Martin steps in the way to block his path. A silent challenge.

"Move, Dr. Whitly."

"Listen, I know you're upset," Martin says placatingly, a reassuring hand on Malcolm's shoulder. Malcolm flinches away from it as if it were a strike. "But it's like I said, we just need to introduce you gradually. I'll walk you through it, every step of the way. You'll enjoy it once you're comfortable, trust me."

"I don't trust you, and I'm not gonna let you kill her."

"You can't stop me," Martin scoffs, toeing the line between derisive amusement and downright rage. He inches a step forward and adds lowly, "I am your father, Malcolm. You will obey me."

It's not just his hand shaking anymore, he doesn't think, but he holds his ground.

"No, Dr. Whitly, I won't."

Martin advances another step, beginning to say something, but he stops, looking over Malcolm's shoulder at the woman. A smile creeps across his face. He says, "I think you already have."

He turns back. No, she's gone quiet. No, no, no.

"No," he shakes his head, pushing past his father to grab the towel and rushing back to her side. He presses it over the bleeding and for just a second it's Gil on the table instead of a stranger, and then Martin laughs and Malcolm comes back to reality. Says again, as if that will change anything, "No."

"Your first kill," Martin says, head bobbing with an excited grin. He shuffles closer, leaning into Malcolm's space to prompt, "How do you feel? Exhilarated? Alive? Kinda dizzy? Come on, my boy, tell me."

"Sick," is all he says.

He has just enough time to step away from the table before he doubles over and vomits onto the tile.

Martin hums. "That's a new one."

~X~

"Oh come on, Malcolm, don't you think this is a bit of an overreaction?" It's Martin Whitly's voice. That trademark balance of scathing and unsettling and just a little unhinged. "I mean, she was gonna die anyway. Someday."

Gil exchanges a look with the special agent leading the hunt for Martin Whitly.

The door they're crouched behind while they wait on the okay to infiltrate is just thin enough for him to hear a faint whimpering from behind it. He knows that voice too. It's Malcolm.

Working with the FBI is hell, he instantly moves to rush inside and a hand blocks him.

The three seconds that pass after that feel like an infinity, and then someone's kicking in the door with a shout of "FBI!" and Gil's behind the two agents when they enter, getting a good look at the scene.

There's a woman on the kitchen table. She might be dead, she might be unconscious. It looks like she's lost a lot of blood. It also looks like someone tried to slow that process.

Martin is looming just behind the table, hands in the air in a parody of surrender.

Malcolm's on the floor hyperventilating.

Gil takes in the vomit on the kid's shoes and the blood on his hands and forgets all about the FBI's order to stay behind them. He surges forward with a cry of, "Bright!"

"Gil?" Malcolm's head snaps up.

"Lieutenant Arroyo," Martin hums irritably. "So good to see you again."

Malcolm flinches just at his dad's voice. That's never a good sign.

"Someone shut him up."

Gil drops to the ground just in front of the kid and crushes him in a hug. The first second Malcolm doesn't react, and Gil's concern only spikes. Then out of nowhere the kid's returning the embrace, clinging to him so tight it almost hurts. He thinks he hears a sob as Malcom buries his face in Gil's shoulder.

He's distantly aware of the FBI agents he's here with speaking, barking out orders and reading Martin his rights, that sort of thing.

Malcolm's grip loosens a little. He says, sounding shocked, "Your leg is still in a brace."

"I know, getting the feds to let me in the field was a nightmare," he says. Malcolm doesn't answer. "What're you thinking, kid?"

"Gil, how long...." he drifts off, like he doesn't want to finish the question. Like he knows he won't like the answer.

"Three weeks," Gil tells him. Malcolm's breath hitches. "I know. I'm sorry, we found you as fast as we could."

"I thought," Malcolm says, pausing to send a look back at his dad. He screws his eyes shut the second he does, letting out an aggravated huff. "He told me you weren't--"

He cuts himself off. Whatever the thought is he can't finish it.

Gil brings him back into the hug, rubbing his hand in small circles at the kid's shoulders. Tells him, "Hey, hey. It's gonna be okay, kid."

"Well, I don't know why you're all only cuffing me," Martin's voice cuts through their reunion. "I certainly didn't kill her."

"He's lying," Gil says, looking up without for a second letting go.

Some of the agents already floated the theory that Malcolm was here as an accomplice. Gil's been arguing against it the whole case until this morning.

He never for a second believed it, but they weren't going to let him on the scene. They weren't going to let him bring Malcolm home. Not until he made the case that, if Malcolm were an accomplice to his father's murders, Gil might be the only one who could talk him down. And he'll apologize to the kid later for ever, ever going along with that but he had to be here. He had to.

No way in hell is Malcolm Bright a killer.

Except that Malcolm whimpers into Gil's shoulder, "He's telling the truth."

"What'd you say?"

"I killed her, Gil. I didn't want to. I didn't want--"

Gil's gaze travels unwillingly back up to the table. The rag soaked in blood. He sighs and says, "I know. I know you didn't."

He doesn't know how long he sits on the floor there with Malcolm. At one point he becomes aware that his jacket is wet with tears, but he hasn't actually heard the kid crying.

The FBI seems content to leave them there for now. Probably figuring that at least it keeps Gil out of the way, and Malcolm's not interfering or making a break for it either.

Martin Whitly leaves the house in cuffs and it feels like a weight being lifted, but their job doesn't end there.

It feels like the longest night of his life. At a guess, Malcolm probably agrees.

The EMTs give Malcolm a once over and then there's question after question from each special agent. Gil does what he can to field some of the questions for him. He tries to get them to leave this for later, but they don't listen. And every time they ask a question Malcolm doesn't have the answer to, it just stresses him out all over again.

They've been on scene for at least a good twenty minutes when they get the call from the bus that took the Surgeon's latest victim away. She's not dead. Pretty damn near, from blood loss and from the drugs. But she's alive.

There are more questions.

Gil insists they can be answered later. This time he doesn't give the FBI the chance to argue as he guides the kid off towards the car.

He helps Malcolm into the passenger seat then walks around to the other side. Once they're both in the car, doors closed to the FBI, Gil turns to him and says, "We're about two hours out from New York. You want me to find a hotel?"

"You were wrong before."

Gil frowns. "About what?"

"I'm not smarter than him," Malcolm says, voice too tired, too small.

"You are," Gil says. It doesn't get a reply, and he reaches a hand out to Malcolm's elbow, giving an encouraging squeeze. "You're _here,_ Bright. That's not coincidence, that's 'cause you were smart enough to be here. Hell, you saved my life twice."

"And I almost killed an innocent woman."

"Martin Whitly did that," he says, shaking his head. "You told me yourself, you didn't want to do that."

"I didn't," Malcolm concedes in a wobbly voice. He turns to look out the passenger side window a second. Then, seeming to remember something, "Is my mother-"

"-Worried sick about you? Yeah, but she'll be okay once we get you home."

He sags back against the car seat then, as if the rest of his energy has suddenly been drained. Says quietly, "I'm sorry."

"What for?"

"All of it. Leaving you in that barn," Malcolm says, like it's obvious.

Going by his tone, he plans to continue adding to the list. But he's either too exhausted or too ashamed to do it, and Gil gives him a second but he goes quiet right there.

"You don't have anything to be sorry for," Gil says. "I mean that."

"But I--"

"I mean that," he repeats firmly. "This was not your fault. You're here, you survived for us to find you. That's all I'm ever gonna ask of you."

He takes in a shuddering breath, as if to argue the point further, then lets it out in a steadying sigh. Offers a small, unconvincing nod instead. Says, "Thank you, Gil."

"Sure thing."

"No, thank you," Malcolm insists. "If it weren't for you, I could've turned out like him. He wanted me to be like him."

"That was never gonna happen."

He's too good to have ever wound up like his father. There's not a thing anyone could've done to change that.

Still, Gil's grateful to have turned up on the Whitly's front porch all those years ago. That bit of luck kept nights like this away from that kid for twenty whole years. And yeah, he's been more than happy to be there for this family. The stress and the fear have all been worth it to see Malcolm Bright grow into who he is.

Malcolm sniffles. Nods, this time more believably.

"Yeah," he says. "Well thanks anyway."

"Any time, Bright," Gil says, starting the car engine. This, he can already tell, is going to be a long drive. "Now let's get you home. Dani and JT have been driving me crazy asking for updates, the sooner they see you the sooner they're outta my hair."

Malcolm smiles, and Gil takes the tiniest moment just to be grateful the kid didn't give up on them.

**Author's Note:**

> i had no plans to write a sequel when i posted the first fic, so i appreciate everyone's interest and support, and i hope this held up to your expectations. thanks for reading!!


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